A Place to Call Holmes
by Lights Frost
Summary: It's been three years and Moriarty's web is nearly obliterated so Sherlock is risking being in London. His return leads him straight into investigating a trio of deadly "accidents" and the search for a missing heir. An American girl who doesn't know who she really is might provide the key to these mysteries, and the key to gaining John's forgiveness.
1. Chapter 1

**I really like Sherlock Holmes, let's be honest. And I love the idea of Johnlock (random fact) and I want to try my hand at writing a believable type of Holmes novel so here goes nothing! I hope you like it!**

* * *

It was around midnight when she heard the sirens. They started fairly loud but quickly faded, moving away from the campus. She sighed with relief and rolled over to stare at her roommate's empty loft. Jessica had gone out with some friends and had left Iz behind at the dorm.

It was part of Iz's nature to worry. Her legal guardian, Will, had taught her to always be cautious. She had learned to recognize different sirens and how to respond to different situations. She'd never known why Will was so careful, just that he was. And that she should be too.

The sirens belonged to squad cars and an ambulance. It was most likely a car wreck except there was no sound belonging to a fire truck. Someone was injured but was no fire and no chance of one starting. Given the time, it was entirely possible it was a murder. Iz shuddered and wished she could speak to Will but he had expressly forbade any contact between them once she was at college. Will was cautious to the point of being paranoid. Sometimes Iz would question how cautious he was though she had learned, over time, not to. The lecture that accompanied any little rebellions wasn't worth the trouble.

As she thought about the possible wreck, she grew more and more uncomfortable. When she had been much younger, her parents had been killed in a car accident. A man, entirely drunken, had crossed over into oncoming traffic and hit the car her parents were in head on. She had been seven years old at the time and one fact regarding the deaths of her parents had always stood out vividly in her mind; the morning they died, three dead birds had appeared on their front step, two adults and a fledgling and beside their still bodies was a single stone. Sometimes when Will was acting particularly paranoid, Iz would consider the possibility that her parents were murdered and the birds were left as a warning.

And usually, when she started thinking like a conspiracy theorist, she went to talk to Will. Talking herself into being frightened and going to Will for comfort was also a good excuse to check on him and be sure he really was all right. Which she had an intense desire to do, despite the time.

Throwing the covers off, she rushed around her room, snatching up her shoes and a light jacket before rushing to the door. It would only take her at most twenty minutes to walk to Will's apartment so the external temperature wasn't a huge factor to her.

Especially since she ran the entire way there.

She let herself into the building and raced up to the third floor where Will's very familiar door was. And sitting outside the door was a sight that made her blood turn cold.

A single dead bird, wings crumpled uselessly beside its body, and a highly polished stone were waiting for her on the doormat. Terror gripped her as she let herself into the apartment.

"Will?" she called, flipping on the lights.

No answer.

She ran into his bedroom where his bed was perfectly made, obviously untouched. Resting on the pillow was a folded sheet of paper with her name, her _real _name, not "Isabelle" like the world believed but "Isadora," printed on it in Will's familiar hand.

Trembling, she unfolded the paper and quickly read the hastily scrawled message.

_221B Baker Street, London. SH will help you. I can't._

* * *

He resituated the cap on his head as he scanned the crowd at the airport. With only one strand left in Moriarty's web, Sherlock was risking being in London for the first time in three years since his faked death. The consulting detective was hunting Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's top gun.

But he was taking a brief break from his pursuit. He had found himself in London, his beloved city, just one week prior and in the past week he had discovered himself outside the door to 221B at least twice a day. He _needed _to see John, to know that he was all right. Of course he knew John was alive and healthy but he needed more than just the brief glances he'd stolen from underneath different disguises. And so he'd taken up the position of a cabby in order to have an excuse to loiter near the flat he had once lived in.

But John was visiting his sister for a few days and so Sherlock had to find another form of occupation to keep himself busy, hence the airport. He was analyzing the crowd as he watched people hurrying by. With a mere glance he knew where they were going or had been and why they were coming or leaving. All of them were in a hurry, rushing to nowhere. He allowed himself a tiny smile, thinking of the many travelers who would see his empty cab, devoid of a driver, and their invariable anger and frustration. If he chanced upon someone worth transporting, then he would make use of his disguise. So far he had not had any luck of the sort.

That was when he saw something quite odd. A lone girl, carrying nothing more than a backpack though obviously on a long journey judging by the state of her clothes and the scuff marks on the insoles of her shoes, was walking slowly and patiently through the airport. She didn't turn towards baggage claim like Sherlock had anticipated, but instead made her way towards the exit. She passed rather close to him and he was intrigued by what he saw.

Making a quick decision, he slipped out of another set of doors and went to his cab. Knowing exactly where the girl would be waiting – having known she would go to the bus stop – he pulled around to where she stood.

She looked surprised when he pulled the cab up to the curb just in front of her but also relieved. She pulled the door open and slid into the backseat of the cab.

Her movements were extraordinarily deliberate and her façade of patience was much less convincing at close quarters. She was anxious, new to the city and on her way to see someone. She would also, no doubt, be new to the country and since she was travelling alone the address she would give him when he asked would be memorized out of anxiety.

"Where to?" he asked, doing his best to read her from the glimpse he could see in the mirror. Everything about her seemed muddled. She was a frequent traveler, not suffering from jet lag. Her anxieties could not be stemmed from a fear of flying or fear of the city. He was intrigued.

And her next sentence made her that much more intriguing. "221B Baker Street."

* * *

After Sherlock's death, a small handful of clients still trickled into the rooms at 221B Baker Street. John hadn't listened to a single one of them and had sent more than a few stumbling back down the stairs in confusion. They had only been painful reminders of a wound that was much too fresh.

But they'd also brought him hope. Could they possibly be sent from Sherlock as a sign that he had survived the fall? Some of them, most of them, had heard about the consulting detective's death and had decided to disregard the news. They believed in Sherlock.

Was there anything to believe in? Hadn't Moriarty won?

And now three years had passed and clients had finally stopped trickling in. John had refused to move out of the flat, despite its being depressingly empty. Sherlock's possessions still littered every room, mixed among John's things as though he had just stepped out to visit Mycroft. Mrs. Hudson came in every day to "clean" but the flat, though being dust free, was just as cluttered as ever.

John didn't work that day and he was in one of his moods. He was supposed to be at Harry's still but had come home early and was now instead sitting in his chair, facing his empty flatmate's, reading the newspaper. At moments, he half imagined he could hear Sherlock's step in the hall but he ignored it moodily. He'd cut his visit with Harry short because he couldn't stand being with people. Ordinary people lacked the spark that only Sherlock Holmes held.

_Had _held, he mentally corrected himself.

So when someone rang the bell at the door, he naturally ignored it. Lestrade had stopped attempting to visit after two years. John refused to see him or anyone else connected with Sherlock. He couldn't bear it. No one would be coming to visit him so he left it for Mrs. Hudson.

"John, dear!" her voice called as she climbed the stairs. A second set of footsteps, unfamiliar ones, told John the visitor wasn't for her. "You've got another one!"

He froze halfway in the act of turning towards the door. Another what?

His question was soon answered when Mrs. Hudson showed a girl in her twenties into the room. "I'll just make some tea then," Mrs. Hudson said and left with a smile.

A client.

John quickly glanced at her, trying to copy Sherlock's methods and deduce something about her. She looked exhausted, he noted, and she had a certain flightiness about her but then again, all of their old clients had had that look. Over one shoulder she had a ragged looking backpack with a small tear in the outer mesh compartment which could honestly be from anything, in his opinion. Judging by the size of the bag, it would only really hold enough for an overnight trip so she wasn't planning on staying in London for very long. He thought. Maybe.

After much too long, he finally spoke. "Um, hello."

"Hello," she answered, griping her bag tightly. "I'm not entirely sure why I'm here."


	2. Chapter 2

Iz was exhausted before ever boarding the plane in Australia. It had been two years since Will's death and she still hadn't made it to London. Caution had kept her from making a direct trip. Will's paranoia had proven to be infectious and terror of the unknown had driven her over four continents. Ever since moving to America from England when she was very small, Will had started saving money for an emergency, just in case, he would say. The emergency had happened and only the depleted state of the funds had caused her at length to direct her path towards Baker Street.

So in Australia, she booked a hotel for ten days, paid, checked in, and slipped out the French windows that night. She hoped the hotel room would buy her a few days head start on her pursuer.

Because she _was _being pursued. She was certain of it. Several times over those two years a stranger would take a particular interest in her from across the street. The disguises were always different but she recognized a certain similarity of features that each of these characters had possessed. She'd also heard about mysterious gas explosions in buildings she had only recently vacated. There was no longer any doubt in her mind that her parents and Will had been murdered – though the police report for Will's death said it was a hit and run – and that she was next on the list.

The providence of a cab pulling up before her at the airport had also given her some misgivings. She was certain she was ahead of her pursuer but could he possibly know about the note Will had left her? It was almost probable. He could be lying in wait for her. She could be walking into a trap. But she was out of options. If she waited much longer, she knew she would be dead. If it was a trap, well, there is no avoiding the inevitable. She satisfied herself with the knowledge that even if the cab driver might be in league with her pursuer, he was most definitely a different person.

From underneath his cap, a mass of dark curls spilled over. He had a moderately bizarre face, she noted, and looked extraordinarily intelligent. She didn't peg him for the type to be a cab driver. Perhaps a teacher or maybe an office worker, the type who was constantly stepping on toes and correcting others. She noticed he studied her momentarily in the mirror before asking where to.

"221B Baker Street," she answered, and then settled in for what she anticipated being an unnecessarily long ride. But the cabby took her strait to her destination, without running up the meter.

When he pulled the cab to a stop he gave her another brief glance with his unusual blue eyes before refusing to take her fare. His voice was a rich baritone that was almost impossible for her to understand at its lowest.

She glanced out at the door before her. The brass 221B shone dully and she tried to imagine what could be behind that door. A shiver of fear gripped her and she turned to ask the cabby to wait for her but he had already turned off the engine.

"Thank you," she said. He simply nodded fractionally in response as she climbed out of the car and boldly made her way towards the door, leaving her ring which she had been fidgeting with in the backseat.

She rang the bell and waited. Soon footsteps could be heard approaching and the door was opened by a small, motherly woman who cast a single glance at her.

"You'll be looking for John, then," the woman said.

Iz blinked in surprise. Was she looking for John? She was trying to find SH, whoever SH was. Maybe this John knew. "I guess I am."

"American," the woman muttered. "Well come in. I'll take you right upstairs."

Iz followed obediently. The flat was absolutely silent, devoid of the noises of human inhabitants. When the woman showed her into the room and left her there, Iz had to take a second look before seeing the man seated in a low chair near the fireplace. He looked tired and a touch gruff but in no means did he appear to be dangerous. Nor was he the man she had spotted following her in the past.

"Um, hello," he said.

"Hello," Iz answered. "I'm not entirely sure why I'm here."

He stared at her as though he had never seen a human girl in his entire life. His features were filled with confusion and he allowed the newspaper he had been holding to fall into his lap.

"I'm looking for someone with the initials SH."

The man's face instantly closed up and his light blue eyes took on a flinty look. She realized then that he could be dangerous. "Why." It wasn't a question, it was a command to explain.

"I was told to find him," she said as she swung her backpack from her shoulder and allowed it to fall to the floor. "I was told he could help me." She studied the man before her and decided to throw at least some caution to the wind. "I think someone is trying to kill me."

The man who she assumed must be John shook his head slightly. "He's not here. He can't help you."

She fought back the anxiety that statement brought. "What do you mean? I can wait for him to come back."

John gave a lifeless chuckle. "You'll be waiting for some time. Sherlock Holmes died three years ago."

"No," she breathed.

John's eyes flashed. "I saw it happen. He was forced to jump off a building and kill himself. So unless you want to tell me _how _he would manage to survive that and _why _he wouldn't let me know he was still alive, I'll thank you to not be contradicting me." He had stood up in the middle of his speech and started shouting at her. She had no right to be upset over his death. She didn't know. She couldn't guess.

Her eyes were bright with tears and John realized that he had been shouting. The sound of familiar footsteps on the stairs informed him that Mrs. Hudson was on her way up to investigate.

"I'm sorry," the girl whispered. "I didn't know."

"Don't you read the papers?" John spat, stalking away from her and towards the window. "They had a heyday with it. 'Suicide of Fake Genius' I believe was the most common title but, you know, it was _wrong. _They were all wrong. Sherlock Holmes was the greatest man I have ever known."

"Those titles were wrong," a new voice noted. "They should have read 'Fake Suicide of Genius' but that's the press for you. Always so inaccurate. Also, I doubt an American would have read about such a local affair."

John whirled to face the door where stood what he could only explain as a ghost or a hallucination. A tall figure with dark, curly hair stood in the doorway. He was dressed in loose trousers, a jumper, a weathered jacket, and a cap but over one arm he held a long coat with a dark blue scarf. John was almost afraid to look at the face, almost afraid that this miracle would be ripped away from him. But sure enough, there stood Sherlock.

Calmly, Sherlock walked up to the girl and handed her a silver ring. "You left this in the cab," he said simply.

"_You_," John hissed and launched himself at the ghost.

Iz stared in alarm as John attacked the cabby, hands scrabbling for the other man's throat.

"_You bloody bastard!_" John growled, letting out a stream of choice curse words while he attacked the tall, slender man he had been allowed to believe was dead for three years. He was furious and happy and scared and in a solid state of disbelief. And Sherlock didn't fight back. He allowed John to attack him and maintained his calm which only made John more furious. How dare he come back. How dare he act as though nothing had happened, as though he hadn't taken a piece of John with him when he'd jumped of St. Bart's. And he actually thought it was acceptable to just walk back in?

"Get out," John ordered with his hands still at his old flatmate's throat. "Get. Out. You're dead." He threw the apparition away from himself and returned to his chair, head in hands. He'd hallucinated about Sherlock returning before. The ghost always fought back in the past, the fact that this one hadn't didn't seem to register with him. All John was aware of was that his mind was playing tricks on him.

"John." His voice was low and firm. "John, I'm not dead."

Forgotten in the scuffle, Iz stared between the two men before her, completely at a loss. "Do you two know each other?" she finally asked once the silence had been allowed to grow to an uncomfortable amount.

John jumped violently at the sound of her voice but the look in his eyes had changed from angry defeat to a feverish hope. "You see him? You actually see him?"

"Of course she does, John. Your hands are entirely steady, you neglected your cane when you so agilely threw yourself at me, completely disregarding your injury. These facts combined with your heightened breathing and heart rate work to prove that you are not hallucinating and everything you perceive to be happening really is. The presence of a third party ought to help convince you that your mental faculties are in perfect working order and that I did not die. John," Sherlock crossed the room quickly, kneeling before John, "Moriarty did not beat me."

"Course he didn't," John said gruffly, ignoring the pricks in his eyes that warned of tears. He forced himself to laugh instead. "You're the great Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes slightly as he studied his friend. It had been three years since they had spoken and he regretted every instant of silence. He knew by John's fisted hands that at least a part of him was still in denial about what was before him. John was a person with strong emotions and Sherlock knew him well enough to be able to watch his internal struggle play out across his features. But the call of a client was enough to distract him for the moment.

"I overheard your conversation just before I came into the room," Sherlock said, turning to address the worried looking girl standing in the center of the room. "I believe you've come to see me."

She nodded slowly. "And who are you? Or what?"

A strong wave of pleasure washed over Sherlock. He was back in his old lodging with his faithful friend by his side and a new case, already promising to be interesting judging by the little signs he could read from his client. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and I'm the world's only consulting detective."

He allowed himself the tiniest smile. And the game was on.


	3. Chapter 3

**Anybody want to review? Please?**

* * *

"How do I know I can trust you?" were the first words out of their client's mouth.

To Sherlock, the question seemed undoubtedly stupid. She had come to him for help. As an American, it was possible she knew nothing of his reputation, especially considering her age – not much beyond twenty, he reasoned – but someone who was obviously as desperate as the girl standing before him ought not to bother so much with such a silly little thing as trust. Trust mattered in the most literal sense, of course, but the emotional connotation of the word was utterly pointless.

"If you are questioning my confidentiality, I assure you, anything said to either myself or my colleague," he nodded towards John who glared at him, "will not be repeated. I am a professional Miss…"

"Smith," she supplied. "At least, that's what I've been told my entire life."

"And recent events have led you to believe the name is a false one."

"Why don't," John snapped, "you let her tell her own story?"

Sherlock opened his mouth to hurl a cold rebuttal at John but kept silent, moving instead to his old chair. Neither John nor he had offered a chair to their guest, though the lack of courtesy didn't seem to register with her. Being left the only one standing in the room, she sank to the floor and pulled her pack onto her lap, wrapping her arms around it protectively.

"I've lived in America for the past twelve years of my life," she began.

"Born in England," Sherlock interjected. "The slight traces of an accent say from the South. Your speech patterns generally stem from the middle to upper classes."

The girl blinked at him. "What else do you know?"

John groaned, knowing Sherlock was about to show off his capabilities.

"I know you're a frequent traveler though you've never returned to England, despite having been born here. I know an event – most likely a crime – drove you to finally return though you took as much time as you possibly could afford to get here, taking the least direct path you could. The last time you bathed, you were in a different country." He paused to check his phone. "Most likely Australia. You're a cautious person, afraid of everyone you meet though forced to trust them because you've run out of options.

"Now two explanations of your flight to London are possible. Either you committed the crime, or you were the intended victim and are currently being pursued. Given the state of your backpack, I'm inclined to expect the latter."

"The state of my backpack?" she echoed.

"That tear, in the mesh compartment. The edges are only just beginning to fray, meaning it's new. Judging by the quality of the backpack and the habit you have of always keeping it in hand signifies its importance. That bag holds all of your worldly possessions. It's all you have. If you felt even the slightest tug, you would immediately stop moving and remove it from whatever object it was caught on. However, in this instance you simply pulled harder to break the bag free. Judging from the length of the tear, you used considerable force. Considering the height of the tear, it could be the result from the latch of a door." He raised his eyebrows at her. "Obviously you were in a hurry. That indicates pursued, not pursuer."

"All that from a little tear?" John asked, amazed.

"It fits," Sherlock responded, pleased with his flatmate's praise.

The girl inspected the tear. "I didn't realize it was that bad. I guess I was in a hurry."

"Please," John said before Sherlock got a chance to, "continue your story."

She nodded. "I was born in England. I left when I was six, you seem to know more about where I'm from than I do," she admitted. "I don't even know my own name. Will told me it was Isadora, but that's all. At school I was registered as Isabelle Smith.

"Anyway, my parents died in a car accident when I was young and Will – my guardian – took me to America. I went through school there – we moved fairly often – and then I was enrolled in college. Will wanted me to get through as quickly as possible." She laughed mirthlessly. "It was January, I was due to graduate in May, when Will was killed."

"So the death of your guardian sent you on a frenzied flight to London. A flight that took you two years, that's a little strange, isn't it? You don't seem to show the usual signs of paranoia yet you aren't behaving rationally." Sherlock pressed the tips of his fingers together and surveyed Isadora through narrowed eyes. "Continue."

"He left me a note," she said. "It said to find you."

"Interesting," Sherlock muttered. "That explains it then, doesn't it?"

"Explains _what_?" John spat. Being furious towards Sherlock was much easier than accepting that he had been dead and now wasn't. And he had the same pompous attitude. Gone for three years and not even a "How are you?" when he decided to show up again. Oh no, he was only there for the case. That was all Sherlock had ever cared about anyway, his precious crimes to solve.

"Her delay in getting here." Sherlock turned his attention on Isadora. "Obviously the note would have seemed like a trap to you but without other options, you had no choice but to take its advice. However, you're not stupid. You believe your parents' deaths were no accident, this note confirmed your suspicions. Whoever is after you, you've been leading him on a chase throughout the world."

"How'd you know it's a him?" Isadora asked.

"Statistically most probably," he responded, brushing it off. "A direct route would have saved you time and funds but it would most likely have cost you your life."

"Why d'you say that?" John demanded.

"Because," Sherlock slid his piercing eyes over to John. He had lost weight over the years. "Shortly after the incident occurred – two years ago you said? – I was still out of the country."

"So you faked your own death to take a _three year holiday?!" _John roared, launching himself to his feet. "You could have let me know you were alive, Sherlock!"

"Not now, John," Sherlock said in a forcedly calm voice. "I'll explain it later. Now, we have a client. Do you know who's pursuing you, Isadora?"

She slowly shook her head.

"And you don't know why, either, do you?"

Again, she shook her head no.

"Well that settles it then," Sherlock declared, clapping his hands. "You'll have to stay here, out of sight. It's entirely plausible that whoever is after you saw you come into this flat, but we're going to play the odds and hope they're in our favor. You may stay in the bedroom that's just down this hall, once I grab my things out of it – John won't've had them touched, sentiment, you know."

Isadora glanced at John who still stood with his fists clenched though he hadn't moved.

"I'll sleep on the couch. That's the hospitable thing to do, isn't it? But first, John, would you draw the blinds? Don't want to cause too much of a stir. All of Baker Street will think they've seen a ghost."

John stepped threateningly close to Sherlock. His fingers twitched slightly as he considered breaking one of those ridiculous cheekbones. "Maybe they have."

He turned away angrily, viciously yanked at the blinds, and stormed out of the room and away from the source of the raging storm of emotions he was currently experiencing.


End file.
